


Emrys Festival

by thenerdyindividual



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bars and Pubs, Boys Kissing, Celebrations, Cryptid Merlin (Merlin), Flirting, Hiking, Investigations, Journalism, Journalist Gwaine (Merlin), M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-24 02:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30065139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenerdyindividual/pseuds/thenerdyindividual
Summary: Gwaine has had a few stories not pan out for him over the years, but this one is the straw the breaks the Camel's back. He gets relegated to writing fluff pieces and barely leaving his desk. So when Caerleon offers him the assignment to go report on a week long festival in a tiny town in Ireland, he jumps at the chance. There he is shown around by Merlin, but Gwaine swears there is something more to him than meets the eye.
Relationships: Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

Gwaine shuffles his bag higher on his shoulders, and buries his hands in his pockets. The streetlights don’t reach the darkness of the alley, and the only illumination comes from a neon sign proudly proclaiming that the run down motel has no vacancies. Rain drips off the awnings, forming puddles on the concrete below. The rain drips steadily down the back of Gwaine’s jacket, no matter how tightly he tugs the collar up around his neck. He takes a moment to be grateful that he bothered to pull his hair into a bun, by now it would have been soaked through and adding to the beads of water already rolling down his spine and making him shiver. 

He steps around one of the puddles, not willing to get whatever muck is floating in it stuck to his boots. They may have tramped through far worse conditions before, but that doesn’t mean he relishes scrubbing shit out of the tread, and trying to get motor oil out of the leather, no matter how well treated it might be. He bypasses the hotel, keeping his head low so as to go unnoticed by as many people as possible. It wouldn’t do for anyone to witness the exchange he’s about to take part in. It could get both of them into a lot of trouble.

The building is derelict. The fire escape has long since rusted to the point of no repair, but the owner of the building is clearly too cheap to replace it, and the sorts of people who rent space there are not the sorts of people who want attention drawn to them. They aren’t about to get the city involved over something as trifling as fire codes. In fact, even a murder might not be enough for these people to call on authority. 

Unfortunately, these are the exact kinds of people Gwaine needs for this branch of inquiry. He needs people who won’t ask questions when he shows up. He needs people who won’t report to police even if they have nothing to hide. In essence, he needs people who keep their secrets and, by extension, his. It’s the only way he can get this done.

He steps onto what serves as a back step, rotting wood with a cinder block for support, and knocks on the door. Several cigarette butts get crushed under his boots in the process. The paint on the door is peeling, exposing the metal underneath, and it’s hard to tell what color the paint was originally in this half-light from distant street lamps and business signs. 

He knocks again, as is the pattern, and the door swings open seemingly of its own accord. He doesn’t see who opened it for him, and he doesn’t go looking. That would break the unspoken code of places like this. He steps in, shakes some of the rain from his jacket, and swings the door shut behind him. Contrary to what movies would have everyone believe, the inside is not booming with music. There’s no manic techno pulsing through the floors, no bass boosted heavy metal thudding so hard that you feel it doing its best to give you arrhythmia. Noise complaints would draw the police, and the police would frown on the various activities that straddled he border between legal and not. 

The interior is quiet. Not silent, it isn’t a cemetery after all, because he can hear the quiet chatter of people working on a project together. There is music playing, but at soft volume that makes it hard to hear. If it weren’t for the location and the distinct anarchist group insignia flags hanging from the walls, he would almost mistake himself for being in a trendy hipster café that only serves coffee that has been digested by an animal first. The distinct lack of coffee is also proof that he is not standing in a café. 

He keeps his hands in his pockets and his shoulders up around his ears. He doesn’t attempt to look intimidating, but he tries to match the general attitude of the people around him. He’s learned over the years that the more he blends in with the given group, the more likely it is that his presence will go unremarked. He makes himself look closed off and uninterested, and eyes slide from him almost as soon as they land on him. 

He passes by a ratty orange sofa that might have been popular in the 1970s, and ignores the couple necking between lines of code. The coffee table their laptops rest on looks like it might once have been a door to a car, and it too is laid across a sack of cinder blocks. He thought his own flat was poorly furnished. By comparison, he’s living in the lap of luxury. It’s a point of pride, he knows, for the people who live and spend time here to get by on as many found items as possible. Gwaine even sort of admires them for it. Detaching themselves from the capitalist system as much as possible is indeed a noble goal.

He jogs up the rickety stairs at the back of the living room, avoiding beers bottles that have piled up over time. God forbid there is actually a fire, no one would be safe. With the amount of electrical sockets in use for charging laptops and powering elaborate desktop set ups, an electrical fire seems imminent. Even more so when he steps into the upstairs corridor and finds the discarded pizza boxes lining the hall. So much for detaching from the capitalist system if they’re ordering enough pizza to make this mess. Still, he isn’t here for the collective downstairs, he’s here for a specific person.

He knocks on the third bedroom on the left hand of the hall; a tap, tap, tap, tap, tap that they agreed to use when they first started in on this adventure. The door appears fairly solid, even if the hinges are rusting. 

The door swings open much like it did downstairs, and he steps inside. The desk lamp is on, and it casts shadows in strange patterns across the floor. The bed inside is unmade, covers crumpled towards the center of the mattress. Other than a small pile of dirty laundry in one corner, however, it is easily the cleanest room in the place.

The door clicks shut, and Gwaine turns on his heel, hands still buried deep in his pockets. 

“Did you get it?” he asks.

His informant nods, but there’s a pinch of unhappiness around her brown eyes, like Gwaine isn’t going to be pleased that she did her job. She strides over to the desk, red hair escaping its ponytail, and unlocks one of the drawers with a key on her keyring. Gwaine will hand it to them, these people know not to keep anything valuable in a medium as easily malleable as digital. If it’s important, they print it out, make copies, and keep it well hidden.

The folder, when she hands it over is bright blue, and thick. The number of pages inside easily make it as thick as war and peace, or some other atrociously long book. It lands in Gwaine’s hands with a satisfying smack, and he grins at her before flipping the cover open. He paws through the contents, feeling his heartbeat pick up with every turned page. It’s all here. Every financial record for the last five years of those involved with this story. He has the evidence, and it’s going to be the biggest break in the last decade at least. He’s done it.

“I’ll save you some time,” his source says apologetically, “I already had someone look at them.”

Gwaine’s head snaps up, and he squints at her suspiciously, “What does that mean?”

“We have a few people who used to be part of the system. A couple of accountants, an ex-lawyer, that kind of thing. I knew they could be trusted to look it over, and do so more quickly and with more accuracy than you.” she explains, “I’m sorry, but it goes nowhere.”

“Nowhere.” Gwaine says, voice disbelieving. 

“Well, not exactly nowhere. What you have there is proof that what these politicians are doing is immoral, but it isn’t illegal. It will still be worth exposing, but if you were hoping to ‘nail these bastards’ like you said you were when you asked me to help, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. At most, these people will receive a few less votes next time they’re up for reelection.”

Gwaine’s knees go weak, and he collapses on the foot of the unmade bed. His heart thunders in his ears, and he presses a hand over his mouth. He’s been at this story for six months. He’s let all other stories fall by the wayside in order to get this done. He was sure, not just sure, convinced that he’d tracked down one of the biggest political scandals since the Pendragon Debacle broke while he was in Uni. He’s come so far, pissed off his editor, missed opportunities for sure stories, and it’s all come to this; sitting in the strangest combination of flat share and dormitory he’s ever seen, and with nothing to show for it. His story is nothing but ash on the wind. He may as well have been on holiday for the last six months for all that he has to show for his endeavors. 

“Are you alright?” his source asks, shuffling closer and reaching out a hesitant hand like he’s trying to be comforting but doesn’t actually want to touch him if she can help it, “You’ve gone a bit pale.”

Gwaine opens his mouth to answer, but all that comes out is laughter. It bursts out of him in uncontrollable fits and he sounds mad even to his own ears.

His source stumbles back a bit, eyes wide with concern and a little bit of fear, “Why are you laughing?”

“Because my career is dead.” Gwaine says between bouts of laughter, “It is well and truly dead. I’ll be lucky to even get hired at tabloid after this.”

“And that’s funny because?”

“I am literally an award winning journalist. I have covered stories from every place from Botswana to Cambodia, but when I try to expose my own government, I get left holding shit. This is hilarious.”

His source frowns and shuffles a little closer to the door, looking extremely wary of Gwaine’s mental state. He can’t blame her. He’s about two seconds from a mental break. 

“I’m sorry.” She says, and to her credit, she does sound like she means it. She opens the door.

Gwaine gets the message, and he sucks in a deep breath. He shoves the folder in his bag as he stands. She’s right after all, even if what they’re doing isn’t illegal, it’s still sketchy at best, and the people deserve to know. Still, he’ll be lucky to still have his balls when Caerleon finds out about this. He was already trying to pull Gwaine from the story to cover more pressing stories. For it to turn out that Gwaine was following nothing but another ‘politicians are sketchy’ article, it is going to be the blow up of a lifetime. 

He wipes his hands on damp jeans, and heads for the door. As he passes by his source, she pats him awkwardly on the shoulder with her fingertips, and crinkles her face in a way that’s probably meant to be comforting or at least sympathetic. “Good luck.”

“I’m going to need it.” Gwaine says darkly, and steps out into the hallway. The door swings shut behind him, and the click echoes with finality in his head. 

He takes a moment to fully calm himself. He still doesn’t want to draw attention to himself for the return trip back to regular old London. He still has a satchel full of documents acquired through legally dubious means, and if he leaves laughing like a loon, someone is bound to notice him. 

Once he’s fully calm, he starts to the stairs. One of his feet goes right through a pizza box, and squishes into something inside. When he looks down, he is tread deep in a half-eaten cold pizza. His nose wrinkles at the health code implications of that, and then he has to let out a soft groan. For all that he was being careful not to step into anything in the alley, he still has to clean his damn boots at the end of the night. He has no story, he has to face Caerleon in the morning, and he has to clean his fucking boots. When it rains, it pours.

*

“To be clear,” Caerleon growls, face lined with anger under his salt and pepper beard, “you spent six months on this story.”

“Yes, Sir.” Gwaine says stiffly, staring off to the left of Caerleon’s head. He has a bookshelf behind his desk, and besides all the journalism awards present, there’s also a framed phot of Caerleon, and his wife Annis. Annis, is possible, hates Gwaine more than Caerleon does. She’d never really forgiven him for the incident in which he and Percy thought it a bright idea to get drunk at the corporate mandated Employee Appreciation Dinner and go for a dip in the fountain in front of their house. Gwaine is convinced that the only reason he wasn’t fired then and there is because he’d just turned in an article exposing a CEO for donating to various anti-lgbt organizations, and then going to a gay orgy in his off time. It had pissed so many people off that the company’ stocks had plummeted, and Caerleon Daily had the most clicks of the month.

“During those six months, you declined not one, not two, but four stories that would have been guaranteed successes.” Caerleon continues.

“Yes, Sir.” Gwaine repeats.

“And after six months, and four declinations, you were left with a sack of evidence that politicians from all parties are not paragons of virtue?” 

“Yes, Sir.”

Caerleon tosses the folder of evidence onto his desk hard, and the slap it makes is not nearly as satisfying as it was twelve hours ago when it was being slapped into his hands. Caerleon grits his teeth, eyes roaming over Gwaine’s face like an explanation for this disappointment is forthcoming. It isn’t. The only explanation is that Gwaine trusted his instincts and they steered him very, very wrong. It’s not the first time he’s hit a dead end with his stories, but it is the first time that he’s gotten this far in only for it to turn out that he was chasing phantoms. 

Gwaine mentally starts building his resume as he waits. If Caerleon is silent, it means he’s too angry to speak. He won’t kill Gwaine –because it’s illegal, not because he has any moral objections to the act of murder—but Gwaine won’t be working in British journalism again. Probably ever. He still has hat friend in America, maybe he could go there. As long as he didn’t end up working for Fox or Breitbart, he’d be happy. 

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t fire you after this bullshit you pulled.” Caerleon growls.

Gwaine blinks in surprise, and swallows nervously, “I can still publish an article, even if it isn’t the one we thought, and I’m your best writer. My pieces have always required the least amount of editing. If you bring someone else in, your workload would increase.”

Caerleon leans forward, elbows on his desk, glaring at Gwaine from under bushy eyebrows, “Journalism is a dying art. All major outlets are making cuts to staff. What’s to stop me from firing you and not replacing you at all?”

“You risk losing name recognition to other outlets.” Gwaine bluffs. If he’s honest, he has no idea if he’s won enough awards to be considered for name recognition, especially if Caerleon puts out that Gwaine is a hotheaded, uncooperative, insubordinate, drunk shithead. But it’s the only arrow he has left in his quiver to deal with this disaster.

He feels like a deer facing down a predator. One wrong move, and his career ends right here in the floor of Caerleon’s swanky office. He was exaggerating when he thought he’d be happy in America. There’s no way he’d be happy there. The plane rides to get a decent story would be too long, the citizenship process is heinous. He doesn’t even like that ‘friend’ who lives there. He desperately, desperately, does not want to have to leave Britain. He can go home to Ireland, but there’s enough of a crossover between publications that if he was blackballed here, he’d probably be blackballed there too.

“Fine.” Caerleon snaps, and Gwaine almost sags with relief, “I’ll keep you on.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Gwaine says, voice more breathless than he would have liked. 

Caerleon holds up one hand to silence him, and Gwaine’s mouth closes with a snap, “I have conditions.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“From now on. You don’t run off on your own stories any longer.” Caerleon says, “I don’t care if you yourself witness the biggest scandal in history and have the evidence to back it up, you don’t report on it. Second, you will only work on the pieces I assign you. Even if it’s just covering the opening of a bloody fast food place, you will cover it. You don’t get to turn down any assignments for the next year unless you have an excuse to take off work that is covered in the corporate guidelines. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sir.” Gwaine agrees automatically, “Thank you for not sacking me.”

“If you violate any of these terms, I _will_ sack you. If you eventually prove to me that you can be a cooperative team player, then we can revisit your assignments later, but until that time comes, you are on… let’s call it probation. One slip up, and you’re gone. Do you agree to these terms?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now get out of my office.”


	2. Chapter 2

Two Years Later

_All of this,_ Gwaine thinks, _could be done over email_. Why they have to come in every couple of weeks for a damn pitch meeting, he will never ever understand. What is the point of sitting around and waiting for the editor to distribute stories? All it does is let the seasoned reporters get all the good scoops while forcing the fresh faced additions to write fluff peace after fluff piece, regardless of whether the newbies pitched an interesting story or not. Hell, most of the time when a newbie pitches an interesting story, it gets taken from them and given to someone else. It’s ridiculous.

He grins and bears it. Caerleon has softened a little about the whole being left with fuck all a few years back, but he still glares at Gwaine when he suggests going any further afield than the sandwich shop on the corner. It’s driven Gwaine mad, being locked in so tightly, but it still beats having to freelance or go abroad, so he tries to cooperate. He doesn’t drink at company events any longer, he clocks in on time, stays late. He is the model of a perfect employee.

The fact that he hasn’t murdered any of his coworkers –Caerleon for example—is a miracle in itself. There are days when he wants to get back out there telling real stories so badly that it feels like a physical itch under his skin. He was not built for stale pastries, shit coffee, and office pleasantries. He was built for travel, exploration. Before his father died, he used to say that Gwaine had an adventurer’s soul, and Gwaine never noticed how accurate that description was until he was shackled to London on a semi-permanent basis. He has to fill out bloody time off request forms now, and he never used to have to do that before. When he was abroad he didn’t have Caerleon breathing down his neck over ever little use of time, and now he feels it every damn day.

He promised to take care of his neighbor’s cat last month, and he’d had to email both the office manager and Caerleon five times before agreeing he could come in early in order to leave early enough to feed the cat. He’s a grown man and has been for some time. He stopped asking his mother’s permission to do things at around age sixteen, and he’s been entirely independent since he was nineteen. Yet here he is, asking for permission like he’s back in school and he has to ask before he’s allowed to go over to his friend’s house to play.

Some of his attitude today might be contributed to the massive hangover he was treated to this morning when he woke up. Despite his reputation, he doesn’t actually drink all that much. Oh he could probably give you the name of a pub in at least a hundred different cities around the world, and list region specific drinks for nearly every country, but he doesn’t drink to get drunk as much as he did when he was in uni. Bars and pubs just happen to be excellent starting places when you’re tracking down sources for a story, alcohol really does loosen the tongue, and it has benefitted Gwaine to be the only sober person in the room. Never know when the next adventure might strike.

Only last night, one of the blokes from the marketing department got a promotion, and it was Gwaine’s misfortune to be friends with someone who was friends with said marketing bloke. So he’d gone, and with a lack of anything better to do, got thoroughly pissed. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but he’s regretting his choices now.

It’s like Caerleon is running this meeting specifically to spite him. The blinds on the conference room window are wide open, and early afternoon sunlight streams in. It reflects off of the chrome details that Caerleon put in to make their office seem more modern when entertaining possible investors, and someone must have polished the table recently because the light bounces off of the table as well. All of said light ends up directly in Gwaine’s eyes. It’s uncomfortable at the best of times, and no one will ever convince him that his unofficial spot at the table being positioned directly across from one of the windows was anything other than intentional, but now it’s truly painful. He almost wishes he had given in and worn sunglasses, but that would have felt too much like giving in.

The incessant droning of people marching out pitch after pitch isn’t helping the state of his head either. He doesn’t even know why he’s here. It’s not like he’s been allowed to pitch anything since The Incident, he just gets assigned whatever story is left over. He’s ended up covering the opening of a French restaurant, running a story on a woman attempting to sue the government for not letting her leave all of her money to her dog, and writing a mind numbing report on how crisps get made. 

Someone used to much perfume. He can smell it all the way over where he’s sitting. His bet is on that new intern they hired, Elena. She is actually quite nice once you understand that understanding social cues is not her strong suit, but her tendency to wear strong perfume and then use so much she has practically bathed in it is very off-putting. The effect is only made worse when Gwaine is already contemplating ending his own misery by putting his head through the plate glass window in Caerleon’s office. Your head can’t hurt if you’re dead. 

“I was thinking, Shoes of the World.” One of the not-Elena interns says nervously, probably pitching for the first time.

Caerleon raises one eyebrows, and his nose wrinkles a little. Gwaine feels a little bad for Not Elena; he’s been on the receiving end of Caerleon’s ‘I am never going to let you do that story even if the hounds of hell are on my heels’ face a few times himself and it still knocks him for a loop as fully fledged reporter with awards under his belt. The truly obnoxious thing about it, is that Caerleon is usually right about what stories are worth pursuing, even ones that are clearly more well thought out than ‘Shoes of the World’. His only comfort about The Incident is that Caerleon gave him the go ahead on the story in the first place, and he’s sure that’s the only reason Caerleon didn’t sack him in the first place.

“Shoes of the World.” Caerleon says flatly and Not Elena visibly shifts under the force of his disapproval, “Elaborate.”

“Well, you see,” Not Elena stammers, “this piece would focus on comparing shoes from different places, alongside photos of the shoes. So, like, Russia would have a lot of boots because it’s always cold, and India would have a lot of sandals because it’s very hot.”

Caerleon gives Not Elena his most unimpressed glare and says coolly, “Were we a fashion magazine, perhaps we would consider it. Now does anyone else have something less disappointing?”

“I have a few.” Rory says with the confidence of someone who has never had Caerleon reject their pitches, “A couple for lifestyle, a couple for local interest.”

“Local interest first.” 

“A new sustainable fishery is being opened on the coast, and there’s going to be a protest over the new zoning law being put in place.”

“Cover the protest first, then cover the fishery for the next issue.” Caerleon says, rapid fire, “Lifestyle?”

“Rise in thrifting and second hand clothes?”

“Been done. What’s the other?”

Rory flips to the next page in the stupid little notepad they always carry around, “There’s this town in Ireland called Ealdor. They have a weeklong festival every year complete with little carnival game booths and sweets, and a pilgrimage to a sacred site.”

“Really?” Caerleon leans forward, the one certain indication that he’s interested, “What are they celebrating?”

“There’s a local legend about how their town was founded. Something involving a wizard. It wasn’t clear from the promotional material I found on the town council website.”

“Right. How did you find out about it?”

“I was helping a friend research her trip to Ireland, and stumbled across it in a forum about unusual things to do. It’s becoming more popular with tourists every year.”

“Then we’re covering it. They should be more inclined to answer questions because the article would boost tourism.”

“Should I start packing, Sir?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Caerleon repeats and swivels in his stupid high back swivel chair to face Gwaine, “Gwaine.”

Gwaine sits bolt upright, feeling a bit like a student being caught slacking off even though he was genuinely paying attention, “Yes, Sir?”

“I want you to go cover this.” Caerleon says, rapping his knuckles on the table with finality.

“Why me, Sir?” Gwaine asks, too hung over to fathom what game Caerleon might be playing today.

Caerleon scowls at him, and Gwaine offers a winning grin in return, “Despite your massive fuck up, you have always had a way with people. They trust you. If this town is small and close knit, then we need someone the locals are likely to speak to openly. Congratulations, you’re going to Ireland.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Gwaine says automatically, but he does feel a bit like he’s hallucinating. He wasn’t sure Caerleon would ever let him leave London to cover a story again, let alone cross a channel to go cover one. The channel might be small, but there’s still a body of water between himself and the office. He will count it.

The meeting continues on after that, and Gwaine properly zones out. It’s been a while since he set foot anywhere near Ireland. His desire to avoid his mother and sister winning out over any national pride. He feels the same way now, and vows not to post any photos to Instagram for this story. He can listen to his mother pitch a fit about his lack of visits once he’s back in London, but if she finds out that he was nearby while he is still on home soil, he isn’t sure even an army could prevent her from dragging him home and trying to set him up with the daughter of one of the bridge club ladies.

He’s in a good enough mood at being temporarily released from his journalistic cage, he even gets up to retrieve one of the stale pastries that are probably left over from the last meeting they all were forced to attend. He chooses one he thinks might have once been a chocolate croissant, and now resembles something akin to a fossilized hunk of wood, and takes his seat once more. Even the texture of week old chocolate croissant isn’t enough to dampen his spirits. He has a story, and one that actually has potential to be interesting. 

There has to be an angle there somewhere. Is it a religious belief like one might celebrate a saint? Does the town really believe in magic? Is it just a fun little thing they use to boost the economy, or is it something darker? A cult perhaps. 

His mind is so abuzz with ideas he almost doesn’t notice it when the meeting comes to an end. He is snapped back to reality when people start to push their chairs away from the table, and he blinks a few times to reorient himself. He gets to his feet, and makes a beeline for his desk, already planning a slew of questions for the locals when he arrives. Hopefully they are willing to talk to him. People living in big cities get this reputation for being cold, but they have nothing on the people in small towns when you’re not a local. Gwaine once nearly swore a blood oath someone to get them to talk.

He yanks open his desk drawer to get his notepad out. He has to brush aside several highlighters in various states of usability, a couple dried out pens, and a mysterious pack of cigarettes. He pauses for a moment, eyeing them. Maybe someone who was trying to quit shoved them in there when he wasn’t looking in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice and throw them out. He shrugs and tosses them back into the drawer, then slaps his notepad down on his desk. He doesn’t even bother sitting down in his chair. He’s always worked best when he’s hunched over in uncomfortable positions.

Several minutes and ink stains later, he becomes aware of someone leaning against the wall of his cubicle. He shakes out his cramping hand and looks up. Percival is grinning at him, arms crossed over his chest. 

“You need something?” Gwaine asks with fake hostility.

Percival shakes his head, “No. Just came to see how you’re doing with being designated the good with local color guy.”

Gwaine chuckles, matching Percival’s grin, “Listen, I haven’t been let out of the house in two years. This is the closest thing to a real story I’ve gotten in that time, I’m not about to complain.”

“Drinks later to celebrate?”

“Are you trying to put me on the transplant list?”

“Please, your liver can handle it.” Percival jokes, “Or are you not as tough as your stories made you out to be?”

“You wound me.” Gwaine declares and clasps his hands to his chest, “I was once so strong, but I have been forced to weaken myself. It is cruel of you to remind me in such a way.”

“Such a drama king.” 

“I’ll go get chips with you, but I don’t want to try to take trains and planes and shit tomorrow while hungover. That would be more miserable than sitting through the meeting hungover.”

“Why is it that I can hold my alcohol better than you?”

“Maybe because you’re twice the size of me?”

“That’s just an excuse, little man.”

“Rude. Now fuck off. I’m working.”

Percival laughs, punches him good naturedly on the shoulder, and then wanders off in the direction of his cubicle. Without him, Gwaine definitely would have been more inclined to murder Caerleon. Percival has spent the better part of two years listening to Gwaine gripe and complain about how much the job sucks. It’s why Gwaine has broken his own code of buying drinks for others as little as possible. Percival deserves every pint of beer Gwaine buys him.

Once the sun starts to set, Gwaine dumps all his stuff into his satchel and heads out. He hasn’t done laundry in quite some time. He may or may not have started reusing socks because he just can’t be bothered to clean. He has a feeling that showing up to Ealdor in a grubby uni era sweatshirt, and socks that haven’t been washed in two weeks, isn’t going to endear him to the locals any. No his best bet is to show up in clean but unobtrusive clothes. Leather bomber jacket that he used to take with him everywhere, flannel, jeans, boots. It will never not be strange to him how something like fashion can dictate who is willing to talk to him. One of the quirks of the world he got used to on his many travels.

He shoves his key into the lock, and lets himself into his flat. It is exactly the same as he left it this morning. There are a couple dirty dishes in the sink, a button up shirt that he keeps meaning to stitch a new button to in order to replace the one that broke. His window is open a crack because Mrs. Henderson’s cat sometimes likes to come visit and has a habit of peeing on the window if not allowed inside. Gwaine would detest Mrs. Henderson’s cat if it weren’t also the cuddliest creature he’s ever met.

He deposits his satchel on the kitchen table, and makes his way to his bedroom. He has to dig around until he finds a clean set of sweats hidden at the bottom of his drawer. As soon as he’s wriggled into them, he realizes why they’re still clean when all other clothes he owns are dirty. They are about three inches too short in the leg, and too tight in the thigh, defeating the whole point of sweats in the first place. He thinks perhaps either an old boyfriend or old girlfriend bought them for him. Clearly, they didn’t know him that well if they got the size so very wrong. Still, it gives him something to wear so he isn’t just wandering down to the laundry room in a towel. He’s done it before, and he would be lying if he said it would never happens again, but it is an experience he isn’t inclined to repeat.

He loads up his laundry hamper, and heads down to the laundry room. 

*

He arrives at the office bright and early the next morning with a week works of clothes crammed into a rucksack on his back. It feels like the old days, when the air would positively hum with excitement as he set off to a new country for a new story. He’s doing the same again, even if it is only a quick hop over to Ireland. It makes him feel like his old self, the one who was eager to work for Caerleon and didn’t spend his days contemplating switching careers to a trapeze artist just to save himself some boredom.

Caerleon’s personal hands over the envelope with the tickets tucked inside without looking up from her computer screen. He sends her a cheerful flirtatious wink that she doesn’t acknowledge, and then he jogs back downstairs and leaves the building behind. He heads directly for the tube. It’s time for him to go to Ealdor, Ireland and for once he doesn’t want to be late.


End file.
